"My dear Flamby, the rent of this retreat is astoundingly modest. You will use very little coal, electric and gas meters are of the penny-in-the-slot variety immortalised in song and story by Little Tich, and there you are."
"I was thinking about the furniture," said Flamby.
"Eh!" cried Don—"furniture? Yes, of course; upon more mature consideration I perceive distinctly that some few items of that kind will be indispensable. Furniture. Quite so."
"You hadn't thought of that?"
"No—I admit it had slipped my memory. The question of furniture does not bulk largely in the mind of one used to billeting troops, but of course it must be attended to. Now, how about the furniture of What's-the-name Cottage?"
Flamby shook her head. "We had hardly any. Dad used to make things out of orange boxes; he was very clever at it. He didn't like real furniture. As fast as poor mother saved up and bought some he broke it, so after a while she stopped. I've brought the clock."
"Ah!" cried Don gaily—"the clock. Good. That's a start. You will at least know at what time to rise in the morning."
"I shall," agreed Flamby—"from the floor!"
The fascinating dimple reappeared in her cheek and she burst into peals of most musical laughter. Don laughed, too; so that presently they became quite breathless but perfectly happy.